Page 77 of Ruthless Vengeance
I shake my head at her, grinning at the thought of Marco finding out that his baby sister will be alone with a boy.
“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it. But can I at least be here when they find out?”
“I can handle my brothers.”
“Let’s hope so.”
Sam is already sittingat a high-top table, looking radiant in a bright coral jumpsuit with her dark hair scraped back in a ponytail, when I arrive at Crescent,
I’ve never been to this bar before but immediately I can tell it’s my sort of place.
It’s cozy, with soft music playing in the background and warm orange lighting that won’t give you a headache. There are even enough chairs so you can actually sit down to enjoy your overpriced cocktail.
Okay, I am officially turning into my mother.
As expected, Sam barely waits for the waitress to set a glass of wine in front of me before she dives into a heavy interrogation about what’s been going on in my life.
It’s hard to lie to her, but I can’t exactly tell her about Tommaso and Cillian, and even my brother Ben showing up. The less she knows, the better, so I do my best to steer the conversation away from me and toward her.
Thankfully, Sam is eager to chat, so I sip my drink as she fills me in on everything I’ve missed in her life since the last time we spoke.
I nod along, smiling as her face lights up when she talks about the guy she’s seeing.
She’s halfway through recounting their first night together when my phone lights up on the table, and I half glance at the screen.
It’s an email notification from the admissions department of the New York Institute of Fashion.
“Oh, my god.” I go completely still, my pulse hammering in my ears.
“What’s wrong?” Sam frowns.
I swallow, my throat suddenly painfully dry as I stare at the screen.
“I…applied for fashion school.”
“Wait,what?”
“It’s a long story, but I’m pretty sure this email is letting me know whether I got in or not.”
“Holy shit!” Sam’s eyes widen as she looks down at my phone. “Well, open it!”
My fingers tremble as I start to panic.
What if I didn’t get in? What if this was my one chance, and I blew it?
“Clara, just open it.”
I inhale sharply before picking up my phone and clicking on the notification.
The email loads, and I quickly scan the words as my dinner threatens to make a reappearance.
Dear Ms. Peterson,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted into the New York Institute of Fashion?—
My heart stops.
I read that part again.
